


Buzzed

by solipsist



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: ?lol idk, Angst, Gore, M/M, not related to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 22:16:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solipsist/pseuds/solipsist
Summary: hey kids i collected a bunch of short stories i wrote a while back. none of them are too long, a page at most.most of them feat william afton + henry, and are really just random snippets of their life? golly, there isn't a whole lot to say plotwise.- - - - - -





	1. 33%

He quietly wails underneath his breath. There’s odd, purple and green circles underneath the weight of the guards fingers, he can barely detect hitches in his breath and the quickening of thick muscles inside his heart. His tongue flicks out to wet chapped lips, a habit produced from stress - stress that pounded in from all sides and took the form of ugly childrens mascots should the battery drain.  
The tablet threatens to crack under the strain. He would be the whistleblower. 

His eyes were not silver; but red and pulpy, bags swollen with tears. The greased jaw pops open jerkily and words come out, mangled by static and torn wires, “Yuh… y… you!”  
The little stained man twitches his fingers, recalling memories of nervous checks and his soft brown hair clumps with blood that dries into crystals. No words are uttered anymore - the body sapped of energy from a fight with titanium children. A nest of metal shards serve as a coffin, and his corpse is left contorted and bulging in all the wrong places. He could not die that night, and it takes the mercy of his employer to complete the execution. 

“God, what a mess.”  
There’s a crunching noise, chalky pills scrape against his perfect teeth.  
“Do they want ants in here? That’s how we get ants!”

A weak punch serves as a warning to respect the dead. A fly spreads juices around the marbled flesh and greedily devours whatever the thin mouth would permit it to. 

“I’ll notify next of kin.”

“Cool.”

He kneels down and fingers the fat oozing out of shredded flesh. The thick yellow coats his fingers, and there’s a dull laugh. 

“How much would I have to pay before you’d be willing to eat it?”

A cigarette dangling from the other man’s mouth twitches nervously, “Your sense of humor never fails.”

“Let’s start bidding at a thousand.”

“That’s not fair. I’m sure there are others who want a chance.”

“What? Do you… do you want a raffle? A little name in a hat?”

“It’ll be a marvelous employee incentment.”

“Henry, you’re awful.”

Laughter serves as the dead guard’s eulogy.


	2. henry 1

He did not wait for a response from Henry, and jumped off the railing.  
“Sorry for not doing much today. You know how it is, don’t you?”

Henry had a blank, glassy look as he stared down in William’s face.  
Friend.  
A friend. His friend, his best friend.  
A friend guilty of murder and hundreds of unheard crimes.  
But still his friend. 

Still, still William was someone Henry loved.

(you know how it is)  
“It”. What was it? Was it another crime? Why had William chose to stay out today? Surely it was just another fight - just a petty argument the false lovers had that both sides would have long gotten over as the hours passed by.  
Was it William’s own admission to a mental instability? Was it a veiled confession that he did not feel well enough to put his all into a new day? 

Something, something, something.  
William would have slinked away now with no comment. Henry knew the comings and goings of this man, no sentence was ever uttered in times of turbulence without a double meaning. William enjoyed tricks and riddles - layered puzzles for poor victims around him to solve. 

It was something. It was something, it had to be something! But something was an answer he would have to find for himself. One could never rely on William for clear and evident routes and truths. 

In that moment of panic, Henry grounded himself.  
It was only seconds, but it felt like years. Years and years of eye contact with William.  
The glasses shone, reflecting the street lamps that lazily flickered awake and pushed away the darkness of a fall evening. 

Overthinking.  
That night, an atheist prayed to God, an atheist called out inside of him, up to a being he knew did not live and was a fabrication of old, withered men.  
Oh, please, please don’t mean anything. Don’t do anything - keep his wife safe, oh god, you know how it is, you how know he is. You know what he’s like. Keep my friend out of trouble. 

The fear of whatever William may do next was a learned reaction from years of erratic abuse and heartache from impulses. Henry dared not second guess what mood or what went on inside the folds of William’s brain. 

The glasses shone, reflecting the street lamps that lazily flickered awake and pushed away the darkness of a fall evening. His arms bristled from the cold. William’s silver eyes stared back, waiting for an answer. 

“No. I’m afraid I don’t know how it is.”


	3. untitled 1

I am almost embarrassed for it.   
In the car, I briefly daydream about gutting the pile of flesh and filthy fabrics. It wouldn't be gentle nor clean, and I imagine jerking the scalpel up to hit its chin and bounce off against the bone. 

We're forced next to it.   
The red light never seems to come and each heatwave of a moment trickles by in the hot car. It's seen me now and I am caught in knots.

We study each other for a moment - upper class and a proverbial rat. I can't look away, I cannot look weak. Staring only heightens my shame and makes its plight so much more clearer to myself.   
My date hasn't noticed yet.

I can't do anything.   
The window is rolled down, my suit jacket protects my flesh from the searing heat of faux leather left in the sun, and a twenty dollar bill is held out to it. 

Eye contact isn't broken. It returns to its post next to the stoplight. A part of me had wished it would melt into the earth. Did I not give it what it wanted? It was nearly insulting to still see the beggar there. 

“Easy there, Ireo,” I mutter to nobody. 

“What?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Whose Ireo,” my date asks.  
I sincerely hope I get into an accident and the side she sits on is sheared off. I hope they find her festering in a ditch at the side of the road. I want to watch strays steal from her corpse and pick away at her meat.

I roll the cigarette in my mouth.

“Don't worry about it.”


	4. william 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it was intended to be longer but i lost interest.

My brain forbids my tooth from pushing in. I'm chewing nervously at my knuckles, am I sweating? My eyes are two sizes too large now. The room has been replaced with a prop from Get Smart without my knowledge. 

In the sparse seconds I lost, they had carefully and delicately swooped in to mock me. Any! Second! From! Now! The! Walls will press in and pop my eyes out, my jaw hinge will snap, my intestines will come down, down - because my mouth will be too full of teeth and my throat filled with brains to accommodate it. 

Without realizing it, I have begun to rock in my chair. He's in on it too. I replay the night a woman in pink frills had bent her body forward, brought it up, and shook her hips to tease the men. 

"I - oh my God."

"Now, don't panic," Henry's actor reassures me, "I'll go down to the station and straighten this whole thing out with Clay and -"

I scream in his face.  
You! Don't fucking "know who Clay is," I shriek. My limbs tremble. My palm unfurls and slam down on the tabletop. 

"I -" can't hold back the nervous giggles, "hate you." Another slam! Compressed air creates a pleasing, resounding noise.  
"I hate it! And I hate it when you bastards do this. I am trying to live, and - and you come in here and!" 

Words don't exist.  
"I - I, fuck, don't." Is Tourettes a contactable virus?  
Was she in a movie I saw? The walls moved inches closer in. The plant shook. 

"Okay, okay, okay. Okay! I'm leaving! Don't be here when I come back!"  
I walk backwards out the office so he knows I'm serious. 

Henry's actor picks up the phone and calls Clay.


	5. william 2

"Christian Dior is falling out of style," Cooper solemnly informs the group.

"Faggot."  
I can't stop myself from putting him down. I don't care about Dior, but a pair of brand shades rest in my coat pocket - a costly mistake in these social skills if Cooper's coked up ramblings turned out to be correct.  
A note to myself; purchase sunglasses at Laurens.  
I'm kneeling down at a table. Sheer black, a comfortable combination between marble and wood - maybe plastic - and the color starkly highlights contrary between the sheer blackness and powdery white lines we've neatly cut out with our respective credit cards. 

It's my turn. The rosey light almost gave the room a magical feel. I can almost feel the harsh grains sheer away at the skinless insides of my nose. A nosebleed can be expected in hours. I shove my hand in my pocket when I sit back up. While I intend to hide my sunglasses from Cooper and company, I find myself fingering the wedding band I had stolen from Henry days before I took off to New York.  
It’s nothing to look at, a gold ring lacking in detail. I don’t want it anymore. If I return it to Henry, he will know it was me that took it, and would probably question why I would do such a thing. It comes out of my pocket and I hold it up in the dull pink light, adjusting it to catch a brilliant glimmer to catch the attention of others in the room.

Nobody says a word. 

“Who wants it?”

Nobody says a word.

The ring is thrown and lands in the lap of the man directly opposite of me - Franklin.  
“Shit -”

(what am i supposed to do with this?) I can hear the question before his lips even begin to move.  
“Give it to Cynthia. She won’t know any better.”  
I was the last one to take a hit and it would be a while before the effects hit my brain. As of this moment, I am the only one with clarity, which the others would be sure to mindlessly follow. I have no idea if Franklin dates Cynthia and I don’t care. 

“But if you don’t want it, I can always -” I lean over and pretend to try and recover the band. Franklin reproachfully shifts his legs and puts it back in his own pocket.

“No, no, I want it…”

We all lapse into silence again. A bug creeps around at my foot, but when it comes down to crush it, there’s nothing but thick maroon carpet.


	6. untitled 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> probably the weirdest thing i wrote. i don't exactly understand what i did, but i like it. originally intended to be a grief thing about the crying child.

her furious words always found a way to claw themselves into the meat of his heart. with each pump, spiked nails always rose and fell, making any attempt to comfort himself useless. 

william had found himself on the floor again. his sides leaning to the wall, cuddling in like the lover he would never have, hoping to find at the very least a dull source of distraction - something to jerk the mechanics of his brain over to a topic away from the source of angst.

elizabeth and nicholas.  
darling, darling, darling - darling fucking children of his. darling, darling, darling -  
the word loops in his head. william covered his face with his arms to try and deny the rise of sadness. 

dead and gone thanks to attempts made to prove he wasn't.  
wasn't, wasn't, wasn't - was not, william craved to firmly convince someone he was not a parasite. 

negligence, due to fear of destruction, was a flaw in his parenthood. his wife had chased him away numerous times - substance abuse, disloyalty, the mangled remains of a dog were events that rightfully struck fear in her and doubt that william would be good to the children. 

neglect was there from the start.  
william vanished to new york, blowing fine weather friends in rose gold light while lines were cut on glittering black tables. he had purposely cut off all communication, justifying to himself (and later to others) that a break from the stressors of everyday life and workplace demands were something he needed. 

a seven month sabbatical from daydreams of biting out henry's soft throat, melon balling beatrice's eyes, shoving mice into employees during ritualistic live autopsies in the name of modern art.  
william had returned home, expecting to be forcibly sewn back into his usual entropic lifestyle. 

it doesn't happen.  
william adjusted quickly - a second apartment, more women, more downers.

\--- history, history, history.  
recollection is meaningless. william pretended the wall loved him in return. the fan above hums quietly on, providing relief from the buzzing silence.

her heels sunk though the brown carpeting. the sight of william crumbling is growing old, and she did not linger in the makeshift office.  
like a true housewife, beatrice glided in and collected the remains of his dinner before the closing door erased her existence from the room.

darling, darling, darling, darling, he mutters to himself, darling, darling darling, darling - repetition of words seem to be the only way to keep his mind distracted and away from impending tears. 

it always happens too quickly.  
the lighter had fallen underneath henry's desk. someone kicked at him, he grabbed the leg, there was laughter. perhaps if the seconds had lasted longer, william would have summoned the courage to jokingly kiss the other. 

there would be an employee who bursts through the door, there's going to be blood on the floor, and a mess of hair and bones caught between teeth. and everytime, every time without fail, william can feel the ground underneath him swerve. grey dots flock to the corner of his eyes, there's a faint buzzing sound in his head ---

afterwards his wife would always say it was the calmest she had ever seen him.  
there would be quiet laughter in her group before they return their attention to a soap opera that had reached its peak months ago. william often compared it to a rotting dachshund. 

william was calm.  
he sat there, listening to the faint buzzing and marveling at how his eyes had managed to blur his vision at the thought of panic. he wondered what life would be like if a man was cut open to show each organ attached to the brain, the heart tied neatly and dangling down in his chest, intestines and livers wrapped up in pink....

" - if you don't want to."  
he shakes his head.  
"i'm not..."

how could henry have a shred of empathy for him?  
throughout the funeral service, william can only think about biting into a softcover book and tearing away each page. if a dog could bite into it. if a human could. if bugs could, why not him? 

darling, darling, darling, darling, darling -

“⬛⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛ - - -”

“It’s fine.” it’s fine it’s fine it’s fine

“⬛⬛⬛⬛ ⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛⬛ ⬛⬛⬛ out for drinks tonight.”

“sure, sure.”


End file.
